Blitzle's Blues
by RhymeSalad
Summary: Bert has been belting the blues for sixty years, but he feels his time running out. The Ghost-type Pokémon are lurking in the dark, waiting for him to join their wicked waltz... that is, until Bert meets a mysterious muse in the city center.


_~I'm walkin' the streets, I still got them blues_

_I've been walkin' the streets, and I still got them blues_

_Just where my baby went, I ain't got a clue…~_

All the blues fans in Castelia City knew that Litwick's Pub was the place to be on a Tuesday night. There weren't many blues bars left in the city, after all. They had all closed a decade ago, on account of blues musicians becoming harder and harder to find… but Litwick's Pub had never had that problem, which was good, because nobody had ever gone there for the good drinks or the good service.

No, Castelia City's blues men and women still went to Litwick's Pub to hear some raw music, and that's where Bert came in.

_~Castelia's quiet, I still got them blues_

_I said Castelia's quiet, I got them Blitzle's blues_

_Got no woman, got no money, tell me what's a man to do? ~_

Bert sat on that rickety wooden stage on that blustery Tuesday night, at the baby grand piano with his harmonica strapped in front of his face, and he wailed his heart out to the half-full, half-attentive, half-lit barroom. Bert had been banging the keys and blowing the blues harp for sixty years, and he was hoping he'd make it five or six more, if he got lucky. He had put down the bottle for good when the doctor told him to… well, mostly for good. Come to think of it, he hadn't been to see the doctor in a while, but he didn't plan to go back. He felt fine. Most days.

And besides, the doctor couldn't make him any younger, or any less bald. She'd just tell him to do fewer of the things that he liked to do, and that list was short enough as it was.

Bert was no slouch on the piano, but it was his harmonica that really sang – not as loud or as proud as it used to, of course, but loud and proud all the same. He played with the kind of soul that can't be faked. A Purrloin lazed on the bar, not impressed by the blues veteran's performance, but the bartender's Leavanny whistled every time Bert stopped for applause.

His style had evolved over the years. Some of the regulars in the corners of the room had watched it unfold firsthand. When he had first started out, people called him "Bert Blitzle." That's what it said on his first record, anyway. His style of frantic bebop had become world famous, briefly. People used to joke that his mouth moved so fast across his harmonica that they could feel the static electricity from across the room… but as he had aged, he had slowed.

Some of that was on account of the arthritis. And some of it was by design, as his melodies became more thoughtful, more deliberate. He still wrote songs; the tempo was slower. The notes lingered, and sometimes they had pauses in between, sometimes for full, pregnant seconds so he could catch his breath. But every note still bent, lamented, soared. The songs still went exactly where he wanted them to go, even if they meandered a little bit on the way there.

Bert had learned that meandering wasn't bad, in and of itself. Sometimes you just didn't need to get there in a hurry.

But his set ended, as all good things do, and, after taking a bow to modest applause and emptying out the fistful of Pokédollars he had collected in the tip jar the Leavanny had nicely loaned him, he went over and took a seat at the bar.

Litwick's closed early on Tuesday nights, but they were always nice to Bert. They didn't mind it if he stayed while they cleaned up. And it's not like he had anywhere else to be.

Bert was sitting on a barstool, sipping a glass of soda water and counting his tips when he heard a rumbling baritone behind him:

"Well if it isn't old Bertie Blitzle."

Bert spun on his stool and grinned at the familiar face.

"Well I'll be. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that was Wyatt Brown's ugly mug."

"Aw, shucks, Blitz. You got old! You still had hair the last time I saw you." Wyatt grinned and took a seat on the next stool over.

Wyatt was Bert's former bandmate, and he had gone grey himself. He explained that he was just passing through Castelia City on the way back from a visit with some family, and he thought he'd take a trip down memory lane.

"…But I didn't expect to see you here!" Wyatt was as jovial as ever.

"Well, can I at least buy you a drink?" said Bert. "They don't pay me anymore, but the folks here are still good to me. Especially this here Leavanny. Thanks for lettin' me use the jar, by the way."

The Leavanny chattered and inclined its head, and Wyatt laughed again.

"I appreciate the hospitality, old friend. But I gave it up."

"You… gave up drinking?" said Bert. "_You?_"

"That's right, I've been clean for almost a decade now. Ever since my grandson was born," said Wyatt.

"Well, I'll have one," said Bert. "Mac, slug of scotch?"

"You got it, Bert. First one's on the house," said the bartender.

"If it's on the house then make it a double," said Bert.

The two former bandmates sat and chatted for a little while, mostly about times gone by, and Wyatt told a few stories about his kids and his grandkid. Bert couldn't decide if he was more surprised that Wyatt had given up drinking, or that the big man had started a family.

"You never ended up getting' married, huh Bert?" said Wyatt.

"Naw. Never did find the right woman. Can't blame 'em though. I've always said my company's better measured in hours than in years." Bert shrugged.

"Aw, shucks," Wyatt said again.

The big man was silent for a minute, but only for a minute. He broke back into small talk and when he made his exit, he wished Bert well. Bert didn't stay much later. He could take a hint; the bartender wanted to go home. The bartender's Leavanny graciously helped Bert into his jacket, and Bert climbed the stairs and stepped out into the night.

Unlike the bartender, Bert had nothing do to, nothing but time to kill. He had nowhere to be in the morning, or the next day, or the day after that… or really any time until next Tuesday. So he meandered off towards the center of the city.

He passed a newsstand on the way; he pulled out a few Pokédollars and bought a newspaper from a bored-looking teenager. He would find a streetlight and read it. Yeah, reading the news was important.

As he walked, he became aware of a presence behind him; when he turned, he found himself eye to red eye with a Yamask, floating in the air a few feet away. Bert made a rude gesture and continued walking; that happened sometimes. The black Pokémon with the golden mask quietly followed him.

Bert had learned that there were lots of Ghost-type Pokémon lurking around Castelia City, if you knew where to look. Not that it mattered to him; he had never been much of a trainer. Not since he was a kid, anyway.

At last, Bert reached Central Plaza, and he walked right up to the fountain and sat down at the edge. The plaza was well-lit; his eyes were dimmer than they used to be, but there was plenty of light to read. He unfolded the newspaper and pulled his dinner, a crunchy granola bar, out of his jacket pocket.

The front page didn't interest him; more nonsense about some foolish local Gym Leader. The sports section didn't interest him; if he wanted sports, he'd move to Nimbasa City. The funnies weren't funny, either, which only left the obituary page.

Most of Bert's friends had already passed away, so he wasn't expecting much…

Until he saw the picture.

"Maura?" he muttered.

It was true; Maura had died. It said so, as plain as day.

"Says here she's survived by three kids and seven grandkids… looks like she finally found love after all, huh?"

Bert looked up at the Yamask floating near his head. Then he looked down at the other Yamask, near his feet. Where had the second one come from?

"You Ghost-types know all about this stuff, right?" said Bert.

The Yamask had no answers, but to Bert they seemed like good enough listeners.

"See this girl? Her name was Maura," he said to the two Ghost-type Pokémon. "I asked her to marry me about fifty-five years ago, but she said she wasn't the marriage type."

He sighed, and he squinted as he noticed a third pair of red eyes blinking at him.

"Buzz off, I'm not sharing my dinner with you freeloaders," he said.

Bert picked up his dinner, such that it was, and he turned it over in his hands, examining the red wrapper… but he suddenly wasn't very hungry.

"You know, an old timer gets suspicious when ghosts start following him around."

The Yamask were silent as ever… but they crept a little closer. Bert peeked over his shoulder; even more red eyes peeped at him in the gloom.

He sighed again. Whatever this was, it couldn't have been a good sign.

"I'm not having a great night," said Bert. "So if you're here to drag me kicking and screaming to the underworld, you'll be a little disappointed."

The Yamask inched closer…

"I guess I always imagined it happening a little differently," the old man muttered. "I pictured myself surrounded by friends and family, maybe in a warm bed under a nice quilt, listening to my favorite song… I guess I never got around to all that stuff, huh?"

He put the processed food bar down on the fountain's ledge beside him, unopened, and he pulled out his harmonica. He brought the blues harp to his lips and he started playing… not any song he knew, just whatever popped into his head.

This was it, it had to be. The Ghost Pokémon were a sign that his time had come. He wasn't about to run… but if he was buying the farm tonight, it would be on his own terms. He'd play one last song and then be extinguished from the world, just like the lights at Litwick's on Tuesdays at 11 o'clock.

He'd wail the blues one last time, just like he had his whole life, and then he'd fall forever silent. Yeah, that didn't sound so bad. No more processed dinners, no more nostalgia acts. Nobody would remember him…

But then he heard a sound, even louder than his harmonica. He stopped playing, and the Yamask stopped approaching. As quickly as they had congregated, the Ghost-types faded away into the shadows… and Bert was left looking around, trying to find the source of that curious yet beautiful sound.

It sounded almost as if somebody had sung a note… but it couldn't be. The sound had been too pure, too resonant to be a human voice.

Cautiously, he brought the harmonica to his lips again and played a simple tuning pitch… and the voice matched the pitch so perfectly that Bert had to wince. _He_ had been flat all night; the mystery singer was so perfectly in tune it was obvious.

"Who…?"

But Bert didn't even need to finish the question. Out of the bushes nearby, a curious shape floated towards him. It was clearly a Pokémon, but like no Pokémon he had ever seen… a petite little thing, with green hair that wasn't actually hair.

The little Pokémon made a humming noise as it approached; Bert couldn't have put it down on paper if he tried, but the sound was inexplicably beautiful. He played a riff on his harmonica, trying to stay in tune, and the mysterious musical Pokémon drifted closer. It seemed interested in the harmonica…

So Bert held out the blues harp. The Pokémon took it, examined it, and promptly handed it back to Bert.

"Are you a musician too?" said Bert.

The Pokémon didn't speak; it just kept making that hauntingly beautiful humming sound, staring at Bert with attentive eyes.

"I've spent my whole life devoted to this little organ in my hand here," he said, shaking the harmonica, "but I bet you've been doing your thing just as long as I have. Thanks for scaring off those rude Pokémon from before, by the way."

Bert paused.

"Do you, uh, want to jam?"

The strange Pokémon perked up, bobbing slightly in the air, and Bert took that as his cue. He blew another riff on the harmonica, and after a few bars the Pokémon joined in. Bert played his very best, and the Pokémon not only matched his key and his tempo, seemingly without thinking, it harmonized. They weren't just a has-been blues man and a Pokémon singing gibberish; they were an orchestra, a choir. Bert's hands stopped hurting; he stopped puffing for air. He felt thirty years younger as that Pokémon's song wrapped around him…

And it ended as quickly as it began.

He blinked, and he looked around; how long had they been playing? The strange musical Pokémon smiled at him and bobbed in the air again, and all Bert could think to do was take a bow and extend his hand. The Pokémon giggled a lyrical giggle and took Bert's hand with a curtsy; Bert was surprised to find the Pokémon even more frail than he was, something he wouldn't have thought possible an hour ago.

In one final gesture of courtesy, the old man unwrapped his pathetic dinner and broke the granola bar in half. He handed half to the Pokémon, and they ate together like two new friends. At last, the mystery Pokémon disappeared back into the bushes…

And on his way home, Bert didn't see a single Ghost-type Pokémon. He woke up the next morning…

_He woke up the next morning!_

* * *

_Apologies to everybody waiting for me to update _Normal_... just a little something to tide you over until then. If Meloetta is Pokémon's take on the Muses, then I guess you could call this inspiration..._

_If you haven't checked out my other story, _Normal_, make sure you do! And, as always... much love._


End file.
